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Fiction on the Floor

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier
Poetry



I gotta let go now.


Submitted:Apr 15, 2012    Reads: 45    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


You tell me stay quiet. You want all words from me to come out silent.

I can't resist. I can't conform myself to this submission you so desperately need to see in me.

I take long walks away from any liquids, not daring to be near the sea. To be consumed by water would only mean to be washed away.

Though I could use a good washing, I can't help but find it so ironically astonishing you could wound me the way that you have, not flinching.

Your sugar coated words suddenly turning sour, nearly finishing the last hour of our fake bliss.

I remind myself you told me, my brain told me, you would do this, you would dissipate into a distant memory of some sort.

Evaporating us from the public scene. Being whomever the general audience beckons you to be.

I wish I wouldn't have fallen so deep within your traps.

I wish I could of separated what was this to what was that.

You aren't what you said you were last month.

Imagine that?

I may be one out of zillions to be deemed your former minion, but I stand out immensely, knowing I was the one thing you fucked with a brain beating vibrantly inside the head you spoke such detailed lies to.

I wish I could hate you as easily as it is to think about you.

But I know that hating you would only prolong this disastrous mess.

I walked into dirt, I shouldn't of been so naive to not expect to get a little muddy after the experience.

Now I shall think of you as the multi hued balloon, with a string I release from my grasp, wave goodbye to all the colors you fluctuated, showed to only be dismissed by memories of the new.

Sexy, callous, interesting, intelligent, and finally unoriginal.

Alas you've extinguished what was pure and great about you to me.

Now you're just another horror story left blaring on my television screen.

I can erase too, though my pencil has been overused and chewed upon daily.

Soon you shall fill up pages of pages of paper, the paper will crumble, and you'll only be fiction on the floor.





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